


The Great-Great-Grandmother Paradox

by amyfortuna



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Character Death, Butterfly Effect, Dancing, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, F/F, First Time, Incest, Loss of Virginity, Mind Reading, Oral Sex, Scissoring, Semi-Public Sex, Silmarils, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-08 15:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15933371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: Arwen, about the year 1000 of the Third Age, is sent back to the Years of the Stars, in Neldoreth, in Beleriand, and there meets her great-great-grandmother, Lúthien.





	The Great-Great-Grandmother Paradox

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kimaracretak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/gifts).



One tree was at the centre of the anomaly: a certain ancient, aged pine that looked as though it had walked, slow and careful, all the way from the Forest of Neldoreth in Beleriand to the pine woods just above the valley of Imladris in Eriador. Arwen, out for a morning walk, put her hand upon the jagged bark, feeling the tree shift and shudder in the wind. 

The Valley was still. There was no breeze that day. She had but a moment to realise this, before the world changed around her. The glimpses of Rivendell she could see through the trees faded, even the trees around her shifted position. It was no longer a brilliant summer morning, but a dark night lit only by stars, and she stood in a forest of mingled beech and pine trees rather than mainly ancient pine. 

Arwen turned this way and that, trying to see what manner of place she had come to. Far off in the distance were laughing voices. She could see faint torchlight flickering through the trees, and ran toward the light, lifting her skirts out of the damp grass with one hand. 

At last she emerged from the trees into a crowd of people dancing. She paused, looking around, and saw that all of them were maidens. Out of sight, music was being played upon flutes, harps, pipes, and drums, and everyone there was light-footed and carefree, as though there were never sorrow nor trouble in the world. 

One maiden in particular was the centre of their revelry, the guiding star about whom all the rest arranged their dances. She shone bright with merriment and her dark hair flowed down her back like dark winter clouds over the mountains. She was pale, pale, pale like the mushrooms that grew in the darkest woods, and her eyes were alive with a glow that was more than Elven, and yet was something innately familiar. 

Catching her breath, Arwen realised she had been staring just a moment too long, in the same instant as she recognised who the mysterious shining maiden might be. It could be none other than her ancestress, Lúthien, and the shock of that made her catch her breath and stumble backwards, hoping to slip away into the shadow of the trees. 

But too late. Lúthien caught sight of her just as the music ceased and the dancers paused their revelry. "Fair lady," she cried out, her voice easily heard over the murmurs of her handmaidens, "come and join our merrymaking!" 

Arwen, one hand on the trunk of a tree to steady herself, peered around it, seeing Lúthien coming toward her. In a moment, she was there, and Arwen could see her fair ancestress, her great-great grandmother, in the first flush of her youth under the stars of Beleriand, in full. 

Lúthien was clad in blue just as the stories told, and her eyes were grey, lit with eldritch Maiar brightness, while her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, bound by no ties. Her white feet were bare, and her cloak (for the long night under stars was cool) was white, with golden flowers embroidered upon it. Arwen had never seen anyone so fair in all her long days. 

"Why do you delay," Lúthien said, "to do as your princess asks?" Her voice held quiet command, and it was that more than anything else which drew Arwen out from her place behind the tree. 

"I am here, my princess," she said softly. 

Lúthien took her hand, drawing her forth. "What is your name, maiden?" 

Arwen took a breath. She could not state her own names, for 'royal maiden' would draw questions in a land where Melian and Lúthien were the only royal women, and 'Undómiel' would be unknown in a land never visited yet by twilight, but only ever by stars. She grasped hastily at the remembered names from her history lessons. "I am Morwen, princess." 

"Come then, Morwen, and dance with me. I wonder that I have not seen you before, but there is something strange in your face." She took Arwen's face between her two pale hands and stared at her. "You look...somewhat like me, but you have Nimloth's very nose!" She tweaked Arwen's nose and laughed. "You must be one of her Green-elven kin." 

"I am kin to Nimloth," Arwen answered. "That much is true." 

Lúthien laughed again and dragged her into the circle. "We shall see how the Green-elves dance, if you will, Morwen, Nimloth's kin," she said. "Musicians, play 'Ode to Beauty,' please!" She lowered her voice and giggled mischievously. "Daeron wrote that one for me, though he pretends he didn't." 

As the music started, Lúthien swept Arwen away into a whirl of bright faces and starry eyes. Arwen could hardly keep her feet, even with her long training in dancing and many midnight revels in the Hall of Fire. But this was dancing unlike any she'd ever known, wild, untamed, full of passionate beauty and strength. By the time the music ended, she was breathless, and stood trying not to gasp as she got her breath back. 

Lúthien, by her side, seemed impressed enough, however. "Beautiful Morwen," she said, taking her hand and swinging it back and forth between them, "might I have your company for our hours of rest?" 

"Of course," Arwen answered simply, knowing better than to refuse a princess. 

"Lovely," Lúthien said, and bent to kiss her, taking her lips in an altogether unchaste way, drawing her close and sliding a hand over her breasts, blatantly feeling her body. 

Arwen went bright red and breathless for a reason that had nothing to do with dancing. Lúthien's tongue in her mouth and her hands all over her body were the most erotic thing that another person had ever done to her -- and this was being done by her grandmother twice removed! 

And yet if she were not kin, Arwen would have gladly, nay eagerly, been desirous of this embrace and kiss. Indeed, her body seemed not to know of any kinship, for she was wet, her nipples hard and aching, and her whole body filled with a melting, yearning sensation. She wanted more, and though her rational brain was screaming that it was incestuous and wrong, she leaned into the kiss, and wrapped her own arms around Lúthien, sliding her hands down her back. As long as Lúthien never knew of their kinship, what harm was there in it? 

"By my mother, you _are_ fair and eager!" Lúthien said, her eyes blazing with desire, drawing back a little. "I could almost take you here before everyone and you would love it, wouldn't you?" She glanced around and then raised Arwen's skirts, pressing close so as not to expose her before everyone, and slid a gentle hand up her thighs, feeling between them to the lips that concealed her cunt. 

Arwen gasped. She never thought anything could feel so good, and Lúthien had not even gone between her nether lips yet, but was just sliding a finger up and down the outside. After a few moments of delicious torture, she pressed between them to find warm wetness, slick and sweet. Lúthien slid a slick finger upward to circle around Arwen's clit, and Arwen put her head back, panting, melting into the touch. 

Arwen was fast losing herself to bliss as Lúthien touched her, but far too soon Lúthien drew away, putting her finger into her mouth, tasting Arwen's fluids. 

"So sweet," Lúthien whispered. "Has no one ever done this before to you, my lovely?" 

"No," Arwen breathed. 

Lúthien took Arwen's hand. "Then I will take you properly, on a bed, rather than here in the wild woods in sight of all. Believe me, it would be no hardship for me to just push you to the ground right now and put my mouth on you, and I've done it before with other maidens, but you deserve better for your first time." 

Arwen found herself unable to speak or do anything but follow in Lúthien's lead. Off to the side she could see what Lúthien meant, for her maidens were all now lying down in the green grass, some of them with other maidens, and some with the male musicians, and a few of the male musicians were lying together too. Clothes were being removed, and Arwen could see exposed breasts, male parts that made her blush, and here and there a pair entirely naked and lost in the throes of copulation already. 

Lúthien led the way to to a white tent a short way off, illuminated by a few candles in hanging lanterns. A pile of furs and blankets lay inside, and on a low table nearby was a pitcher of water with wooden cups and a vase of flowers. A single light wicker chair was the only other furniture in the tent. 

"Come here, my beauty," Lúthien said. "Let me take off your dress. Is this Green-elven fashion that you wear? It is very strange." 

Arwen nodded, the pulse between her thighs still throbbing. She turned, and Lúthien quickly unbuttoned the dress, exclaiming over the unusual wood that the buttons were made from. 

Lúthien's own dress was light and easily pulled off. She cast it and the cloak aside on the chair, Arwen's dress hastily flung over the back of it, and pulled Arwen to her, looking at her in the light of the candles. 

"How beautiful you are!" she exclaimed. "What glorious strong thighs, and your hair, it is nearly the same shade as my own, and the same texture too." She walked around Arwen, assessing her, sliding a hand over her buttocks, bending down to take a nipple in her mouth and suck strongly on it for a moment, sliding fingers through her hair sending ecstatic shivers all through her, and finally taking both her hands and tugging her to the bed. 

"I would have you touch me, first of all," Lúthien said. "Take your pleasure of me. I will tell you if anything is less than pleasing." She lifted Arwen's hands and brought them to her breasts. "Stroke them, touch them, suck them."

Arwen pushed Lúthien backward into the bed of furs and settled down beside and half atop her, taking one small breast in her mouth almost immediately and sucking tenderly at the nipple, brushing her tongue over it now and again. Lúthien sighed beneath her, arching up into her mouth. 

One of Arwen's hands descended to Lúthien's mound and gently stroked the dark hairs between her thighs, hoping to tease her the way she'd been teased earlier. Lúthien thrust her hips upward, clearly trying to get Arwen to slide her finger into her cunt, but Arwen moved her hand. Lúthien gasped softly and strained upward again, but Arwen gently bit her nipple, and she subsided. 

"Please touch me," she begged instead in her musical voice. "Please put your fingers in my cunt. I need you, Morwen, I need you so. Don't deny your princess." 

Arwen glanced upward at her face, and she was smiling even as she begged, sure of her mastery of the situation. Letting Lúthien's nipple slide out of her mouth, she slipped up to kiss the smile from Lúthien's mouth, at the same time finally letting her fingers delve into the slick warmth that was Lúthien's cunt. 

Oh, she was divine. Hot and wet, and everything Arwen had never known she wanted. "Put your mouth on me, please," Lúthien whispered, tongue curving over the point of Arwen's ear. "Do it like this." She slowly began licking the ear with a pointed tongue, then narrowed in on the point of it and sucked it into her mouth, sending Arwen nearly out of her mind with pleasure. 

Bending to her task, Arwen spread Lúthien's legs, catching the warm musky scent of her. She was so wet that her juices had already made a damp patch on the bed, and bright shining droplets clung to the dark hair. Arwen parted her lips and gazed upon her, realising that their cunts both looked exactly the same, then applied her mouth to Lúthien's clit. She tasted slick and salty, a pure clean taste that reminded Arwen more than anything else of the way she tasted herself. 

Lúthien's thighs were around her ears, and she could hear, as it seemed very far away, her moans and gasps, growing louder when Arwen did something particularly perfect. Lúthien clearly cared nothing for being quiet, Arwen realised, and was in fact being so loud deliberately as a way of showing her handmaidens and musicians just how much she was enjoying the dark beauty she'd taken to her bed. 

After a few minutes of playing her tongue over Lúthien's clit, Arwen brought her fingers up again, finding her entrance and gently pressing two fingers inside. Lúthien laughed in the midst of her cries, and breathed out, "Oh, you're perfect, keep doing that!" Arwen did, crooking her two fingers and gently stroking the top of the tight channel, making sure to keep her tongue on Lúthien's clit while she did so. 

The results were more than she could have hoped for. With a startlingly loud cry, Lúthien convulsed and came, clear slick fluid spilling out of her. Arwen lapped at her, tongue going soft, licking up as much of the warm salty fluid as she could. Lúthien's cunt clenched around her fingers rhythmically for a long moment. 

At last Lúthien laid her hand on Arwen's head. "Come here," she whispered, and Arwen pulled herself out from between Lúthien's legs, and lay down next to her, face still covered in fluids. Lúthien kissed and lapped them away, then slid her hand down Arwen's body to her cunt, covering it with her hand, making Arwen thrust her hips upward, desperate for more sensation. 

Lúthien laughed and rose to a kneeling position, her hair spilling over her shoulders like a dark cloud around her head. She took Arwen by the waist and pulled her close, until her cunt was pressing up against Lúthien's thigh, and then bent to kiss her, gathering her close and thrusting against her. 

Lúthien was warm and sturdy, and Arwen rocked into her embrace, kissing fervently back, then throwing her head back as Lúthien moved down her throat, leaving small bites in her wake. She could feel Lúthien's wet cunt against her own thigh, grinding down, and endeavoured to copy her, pushing up and against Lúthien, chasing bliss that felt long-denied. 

Ecstasy poured over her in an all-consuming rush. Arwen chased sensation desperately, uncaring of any who might hear, moving against Lúthien as though they two were all alone in the world. Lúthien bent to take a nipple in her mouth, sucking firmly at first to bring it to hardness, and then biting it. The small pain heightened the pleasure, and Arwen bucked against Lúthien, rubbing her clit on Lúthien's thigh in a frenzy. 

She sobbed as orgasm broke over her, sweeping her consciousness away in a throbbing delicious kind of agony, all her internal muscles clamping down on air. Lúthien brought her down slowly, stroking her sides, her belly, her thighs, sending Arwen shivering with pleasure and tiny aftershocks. 

Arwen opened her eyes after several minutes, meeting Lúthien's calm gaze. Lúthien smiled softly at her, and pulled away, reaching for the pitcher of water. After a moment she handed Arwen a cup of clear water, sipping at one herself, and then settling back on the bed. Arwen drank the water thirstily and put the cup aside, sitting up next to Lúthien, trying to think of something to say. 

"Why have I never seen you before?" Lúthien asked then, a little too lightly, as though she had been pondering the question for a while. "You are clearly at least several hundred years old, and kin to Nimloth. The Green-elves come often to Menegroth, but they come in groups, and you were alone, in the middle of Neldoreth, looking lost." She tilted her head, and suddenly Arwen felt a sensation like echoing inside her head. 

She backed away a little, shocked out of her warm afterglow, and instinctively put her hands to her ears. "No! No!" she cried. "Do not look!" 

"What are you hiding from me, Morwen?" Lúthien said. "Why should you fear my touch inside your mind, when you are willing to enjoy my touch upon your body?"

"I cannot tell you," Arwen gasped. 

"Sweet one, I am your princess. You have no need to hide anything from me." Lúthien gently pried Arwen's fingers away from her ears. "I will be careful. I'm skilled at this. You have nothing to fear." 

Arwen desperately recalled all the lessons she had ever had with Galadriel in mind-shielding. It was not one of her natural talents, but fear made her strong. Yet Lúthien was half-Maia, the daughter of Melian who had taught Galadriel most of what she knew, and she was an overwhelming force. Arwen's shields shattered like glass at her mind-touch, and Arwen's mind lay bare to Lúthien, as bare as her body. 

Everything lay revealed. Arwen recalled the picture of a genealogy in a history book, with her own name at the bottom of the page and Melian's at the top. Her father's face, singing the Lay of Leithian. Her grandmother, talking about the fall of Doriath and the death of Dior and Nimloth. Elladan, talking about Elwing's leap and flight. Erestor, teaching her child-self about Elros and the land of Númenor. A tapestry in Imladris showing Lúthien herself dancing in the forest of Neldoreth, with Beren's face just visible at the edge. 

Lúthien drew back, leaving her gasping, and dropped onto the bed. There was silence for a long moment, and Arwen did not dare disturb it. 

"Arwen Undómiel," Lúthien said at last. "My granddaughter's granddaughter. The future lies open before me." She turned back to look at Arwen, who forced herself to meet her eyes, much as she did not want to. "Have you been sent here so I can change it?" She looked off into the distance for a moment, then nodded. "It would be easy. When the Silmaril comes to me, I will simply give it back to its rightful owners. Then my son will not die and Doriath will not fall." 

Arwen's mouth was dry. "You can't do that," she finally managed to whisper. "You _cannot_."

Lúthien shook her head. "Why not? It would save my whole line, down to your own father, much suffering and grief." 

"No," Arwen said. "If Elwing does not escape with the Silmaril, everything in Beleriand that is good or fair will die. And then everything in Eriador. And everything in the lands beyond. Morgoth will never fall, and will cover all the world in darkness, until only Valinor will be left, as an island in the sea of Night, a night which my kin -- and yours -- will be forever lost in. You must keep the Silmaril. Dior must never surrender the Silmaril. Elwing must escape with the Silmaril. Only then will there be anything left of you, and any chance of hope for me." 

Lúthien sat fully up, pulling her cloak from the chair nearby and throwing one end of it to Arwen, who gratefully covered herself with one half, while Lúthien covered herself with the other. She looked very thoughtful and sober, sitting there, her hair awry, bite marks on her pale throat, still flushed with the aftermath of lovemaking. 

"This is a matter I must consider in the coming days and months and years," she said. "I have not yet learned battle-songs or hair-lengthening spells. I do not know much outside of my own forests. I have a great deal of planning to do." She reached out, taking Arwen's hand. "I regret nothing of what has passed here today, and I hope you do not either." 

Arwen shook her head. "I hope that I will not, Lúthien." 

Lúthien drew her close one last time and kissed her on the forehead. "Here, I give you a gift," she whispered. "Your fate is unknown, child of Men and Elves. May it be all that you desire! And if you choose the path of mortality, I will find you on your dying day, and it will be my hand that leads you home." 

Arwen returned the kiss with one to Lúthien's lips, sweet, tender, and clinging. Then she stood, and quietly put her dress back on; Lúthien buttoned it back up without a word. 

"Farewell, my princess," Arwen said softly. 

"Farewell, my beauty," Lúthien said, standing in the middle of the tent, her cloak covering her, one hand raised to cover her mouth. The last glance at her that Arwen gave as she slipped out of the tent showed her still, thoughtful, pondering.

* * *

Arwen slipped away into the night, looking for a certain pine tree. It seemed hours before she laid her hand on the right one, and the world changed around her again. 

The morning was bright and fair, with only a cloud or two in the sky. Arwen looked down into the Valley, and Imladris was there, but the roof rather than being made of wood was lined with some kind of shining metal, and the village about it was larger than she recalled. 

She made her way down into the valley from the pine ridge, and even the path seemed brighter, straighter, smoother, in better repair. Glancing about, she noticed many more signs of prosperity. The Elves she saw were well-dressed and clad in jewellery, and she only recognised about half of them. Many of those she did not recognise were dark-haired Noldor. 

Imladris, despite its prosperity, was in the form she remembered, and she rushed up the wide steps (now marble rather than stone), and through the halls to the library. 

"Arwen!" Erestor came to greet her. "What brings you here today?"

Arwen gathered herself. "I'm looking for the history of my ancestress Lúthien." 

"Of course," Erestor said. "Prose or poem?"

"Prose will do," Arwen said. "I just want to check a few details." 

In a few moments, Erestor returned and handed Arwen a thick book, which she took to a chair in the far corner of the library, near an open window. She flicked through it, noting that the story was different entirely from the outset, snatched words and phrases leaping out at her. 

"...and Lúthien ventured forth from the fences of her mother Melian and travelled to Belegost, there to meet with the famous dwarven smith Telchar and commission from him a knife of mighty magics...."

"...there in the land of Himlad she met Celegorm the Fëanorian and Huan his hound..." 

"...she wove a cloak of darkness, of magic sleep-inducing..." 

"...and she asked the hound to come with her, and he with words answered." 

"...Finrod lived, and at Beren's bidding, wound his way back to Nargothrond in Huan's company." 

"...she danced before Morgoth a mazy dance, singing still and sweet of sleep. So down he fell and from his crown they cut the Silmarils, all three." 

"...then came Huan and met her there, and with him Celegorm the Fair. And on the dusty plain hound fought hound, while horses carried the three afar. Carcharoth there fell but Huan got a mortal wound, and dying raised his voice. So it was that an Eagle came and bore him far across the plain, to Himring Hill where Maedhros sits, and where the three on horses went." 

"...the Fëanorians Thingol then in battle joined, for, so he said, his daughter's safe return. In that battle was Beren killed, and his body brought back up Himring Hill, and when Lúthien saw (they say) she swooned, and her spirit fled and her doom was earned." 

"...and singing therefore Lúthien asked, that thralls be freed from Morgoth's hold, and that she be given her Beren bold, or at least that she might share his fate, in death or life alike she'd take." 

"Morgoth in his rage and hate flung all his might 'gainst the Elf-kingdoms, and so fell Barad Eithel and all of Hithlum, refugees fleeing to Nargothrond and Gondolin, for Turgon would not leave his brother the High King to die, and so opened the leaguer. And with Fingon were many of the House of Bëor and of Hador, including Húrin and Huor, who the King loved, and their wives." 

"...Thingol in dark dungeons fell to greed and overweening pride and Melian fled to Valinor in grief unbodied..." 

"...The sons of Fëanor on Himring Hill held firm though besieged on every side, the Silmarils shining bright upon their brows..." 

"...and when Tuor was grown to manhood, the Princess Idril looked upon him with favour and they were wed...." 

"...Túrin whose heart was ever wandering...and he perished at Morgoth's hands, with his last breath a prayer for Manwë's Eagles, remembered from childhood circling above, and so betrayed Gondolin." 

"...in the battle the High King perished and his brother beside him, and to Doriath the refugees came and Dior welcomed them." 

"...flying dragons assaulted Himring, driving back the Fëanorian forces, who fled by secret ways to Himlad and thence to Doriath, and Dior welcomed them." 

"...and so were born Elrond and Elros, the Half-elven princes of Doriath." 

..."Glaurung's might could not easily be gainsaid. Nargothrond's army was overcome, and so Finrod perished in flame..." 

"...The earth then cracked and the rivers opened. Only in guarded Doriath was it safe, but they were beset by a sea of enemies. There fell mighty Beleg and heavy-handed Mablung, there fell many of the people of the House of Fëanor, defending to the last the lord who had welcomed them." 

"...Eärendil and Elwing to Balar went and begged aid from Círdan to build a ship, intending to sail into the West and pray for help in their last need. Their small sons they left in the guardianship of Dior and of their friend, the bard Maglor." 

"...so for three days they sailed under calm clear skies, and then appeared a host of swan-ships..." 

"...to Lúthien's prayer the Valar heeded, but late they came, almost too late."

Arwen let the book fall shut. There were thousands of years more of changed history, and she would discover it all in time. Already the past she had once known was fading in her mind. 

She looked up from her musings as a small, dark-haired Elf-woman entered the library and spoke to Erestor, smiling. "Of course, my lady Elwing," she heard him say in reply.

* * *

**Epilogue: Fourth Age 122**

No one lived in Doriath now. For many thousands of years after the War of Wrath Beleriand entirely had been altogether uninhabitable, with parts of it sunk under the sea, or with rivers widened beyond normal, carrying away the festering slough of Angband with the snowmelt. 

Arwen walked through the ancient forest of Neldoreth, listening to the wind sighing through the pines. She could almost fancy that just here was the clearing where she and Lúthien had danced so long, long ago in the morning of the world. The rich earth was dark and cool, full of life once more. 

She let her steps turn slowly from walking into dancing, and before long was flying through the forest, her heart soaring. And without a word, there beside her was a face and figure that she knew, hands clasped around her waist, soaring with her. 

"You came to me," Arwen breathed. 

"Did I not say that I would?" Lúthien said, laughing. "Do you like the world I created for you?"


End file.
